


Echoes

by Chris_Quinton



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Flint knife, M/M, Paranormal, Vermont
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:49:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27562558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chris_Quinton/pseuds/Chris_Quinton
Summary: Sometimes, an ancient artefact is far more than just a flint knife, and needs to go back where it belongs.
Relationships: Duncan MacLeod/Methos (Highlander)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	Echoes

**Author's Note:**

> I'd almost forgotten about Echoes! I'd taken the Abenaki story thread and expanded it massively to a novel, now self-published. So here's the springboard from which Carlyle's Crossing was launched.

“You’ve forgotten.” The voice had an old man’s roughness, and it was familiar. So was the lugubrious sigh. “Foolish. Don’t you remember that realities are echoes made by dreams?”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Methos said, and woke himself up.

“Wha…?” MacLeod rolled over and burrowed into Methos’ pillow. “’S’time t’gerrup yet?”

“Probably,” he answered, distracted by the sense of—not foreboding, exactly, more the knowledge that something was going to happen. He peered at the bedside clock, then at the hazy light coming in through the bedroom windows, as if one could negate the other. That light was pale yellow and dove-gray.

MacLeod’s head migrated from the pillow to Methos’ shoulder. “’S’dawn,” he muttered through a yawn. “We should get up. Lots of work....” The alarm wasn’t due to go off for nearly two hours yet.

“If you say so.” But Methos wasn’t thinking about the long To Do list taped to the kitchen door. Or breakfast, or the warm, sleekly muscled body of the man curled around him. Dreams. So what had he dreamed about? If anything?

 _Water._ The memory alone was enough to remind him he needed to take a leak rather urgently. _A river running between dense trees and jagged outcrops of veined granite that reared into a clear blue sky. A river that poured over wide, shallow slabs of rock down to a shallow ford, then dropped in a series of cascades to disappear out of sight as the valley curved away._

He knew that ford, Methos was sure of it. He remembered the place from earlier times, and the house near nearby. Methos eased away from his lover and sat up, knees flexed and drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. A fondly reminiscent smile widened his mouth, slitting his eyes like a contented cat’s. Mary. Mary Carlyle. But she’d had another name, one given to her by her mother.

“Mesatawe,” he murmured. “Morning Star....”

“Mmm?” MacLeod hadn’t moved much, just adjusted to the shift in position by reclaiming the pillow and wrapping himself around Methos more securely. He pressed a kiss to the small of Methos’ back, just above his tailbone.

“Someone I used to know a long time ago.”

“Was she pretty?”

“Yes, Very. Inside and out.” The ford, the house—Mary—they combined to shake loose the memories, and the dream-voice now had a face to go with it. A leathery face, brown and wrinkled as a walnut, with long straggling hair twisted on top of his head into a bun the color of wood ash. His eyes were as sharp and dark as obsidian points. “Grandfather Turtle. Why the hell would I dream about him?”

“Too much cheese for supper last night?” MacLeod kissed his spine again, then rolled away and kicked off the sheets, stretching long and luxuriously like a great brown cat. “Coffee,” he said and bounced to his feet.

“Knock yourself out,” Methos drawled. “I’m going back to sleep until the alarm goes off.” Or lie there trying to work out why he’d been dreaming about a man who was over three centuries dead.

* * * * *

This house was a fixer-upper, the kind of challenge MacLeod relished. Even Methos could appreciate that its potential was only part of its charm. The setting was a major factor as well. It was surrounded by trees and sat on the highest of two natural terraces, overlooking the town of Barre. There were only a few houses nearby, though that closeness was relative. Those trees formed a perfect privacy barrier most of the year, giving glimpses of the spectacular Vermont scenery between their crests, and some shelter from the winter storms.

Over the years, working in blocks of a month or so at a time, MacLeod had replaced the shingles, windows, wiring and plumbing, and had built a large enclosed porch on the back of the house. It jutted out almost to the edge of the grassed shelf, overlooking the basketball half-court in the yard some twenty feet below.

So far, MacLeod had done all the work himself, including the ventilation system in the basement to prevent the buildup of radon gas, one of the downsides to living on the beautiful granite uplands of Vermont.

When MacLeod had suggested Methos join him and help out, Methos had snapped up the invite, and not just because they had recently deepened their friendship to a sexual relationship. He liked Vermont in the summer, and as soon as he walked in the door the house had felt like a home, even though there remained plenty for them to do.

Yet now, breakfast sitting comfortably in his stomach, Methos couldn’t entirely settle into his self-appointed task. He enjoyed working with wood and rarely had an opportunity to do it. He found a great deal of satisfaction in the smooth glide of the plane, the blond curl lifted from the plank, and the scent rising in its wake. The subtle aroma teased in every room, an echo of the trees that had once been—and the thought brought back the dream. _“Echoes made by dreams….”_

“Mac,” he said abruptly. “I’m going into town. Anything we need?”

“Uh, yeah.” MacLeod paused and leaned on his bench, the pile of wood shavings pale and dusty at his feet. “Hit the Farmers’ Market and get some more of their cider. And some of that maple-cured ham from the deli while you’re at it.”

“Okay. I’ll be back by lunchtime.”

“Good, the ham is for lunch.” He hesitated, gaze moving slowly over Methos’ features. “Is something bothering you?”

“No,” he answered truthfully. More or less. The dream hadn’t bothered him exactly, just sat at the back of his mind as if waiting for him to tune in again. Or remember something, someone, somewhere. Somewhen. “Everything’s fine.”

“Okay.” MacLeod’s smile was warm as a caress. “I’d like to know more about Mesatawe and Turtle, when you feel like it. They sound like they belong in a campfire story.”

“Yes,” Methos said quietly. “They do.” He scooped the car keys out of the bowl on the kitchen counter and strolled out into the summer heat. This was the side of Vermont that he loved. The winters not so much. Though given the amount of wood stored for the large fireplace in the den, some aspects of it would be damn-near perfect. He was grinning as he got into the car.

Methos knew where the small Farmers’ Market was: out of town, tucked beside the road. He and MacLeod had called there a couple of days ago to stock up on some essentials, but the heat made DIY thirsty work and the chilled cider hadn’t lasted long. Methos made it his first stop, then he headed into Barre.

For a while he just drove around aimlessly, exploring the town. Then an advertising placard caught his eye. _‘This Week Only! – Your Chance to Purchase Your Own Piece of Vermont’s Heritage! Visit Barre’s Antiques Mall on Mill Street!’_ Following so closely after his dream, Methos didn’t hesitate.

The Antiques Mall turned out to be a crowded collection of wares crammed into three floors. Most of it was from the 19th century, Furniture, household items, the inevitable quilts, some samplers, lace, and jewelry. And weaponry of all kinds. There was some things from the 18th century, and amongst the settlers’ memorabilia, he found a couple of cases and displays of Abenaki objects. Or rather, reproductions of them. Decorative woven baskets sitting side by side with beautifully beaded moccasins, embroidered shawls, fishing spears, bows, arrows with stone tips, hammers, knives, unattached arrowheads and scrapers—

“Authentically handmade,” the salesman said, joining him in front of the weapons display. “Exact reproductions. Two local families have preserved their ancestors’ skills, and this is a small selection of the wonders they can produce.”

“Yes,” Methos agreed softly. “They’ve done a great job.” He smiled to himself. Grandfather Turtle would be proud. Then he took a closer look at the stonework, and something hitched in his chest.

“Would you like to see anything in particular? The arrowheads are made out of chert, it’s fairly common around here, and easy enough to flake—if you have the knack of it, and Jack Olivier does.”

“Thanks, I would.” But it wasn’t the arrowheads that had snared his attention. Among the knife-blades was one that seemed oddly familiar, though the polished beech wood handle wasn’t. “Olivier made them all?”

“Yes. Ren Olivier, his grandfather, has been knapping stone for the last forty, fifty years or more, and he’s taught Jack well.”

Methos picked up and examined a few of the points.

“Be careful,” the man said quickly. “Those edges are sharp as broken glass.”

“I know. It’s beautiful work,” he said sincerely. Then he took out the knife that had caught his eye. It wasn’t chert, but the much harder and rarer flint. The pattern in the banded dark and light gray stone was indeed familiar, and his expert eye could see the slight blunting and polishing along the edges of the blade that hinted at long years of use. That alone would have told him this was no reproduction, even if he hadn’t recognized Grandfather Turtle’s knife. “They are for sale, right?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then I’ll take this one. The markings are interesting. They look like clouds, don’t you think?”

“That’s what Jack said. Is there anything else I can show you, Mr--?”

“Pierson. Adam Pierson. Nothing more here, thanks, but if you could point me in the direction of the books? I’m interested in the history of the area, 17th and 18th centuries.”

Two hours later Methos left with half a dozen books, none of which were younger that 1900, and the knife. He was halfway to the house before he remembered he hadn’t bought the ham, and had to go back to the town. He stopped at the first deli he saw and dashed inside, leaving the car double parked. Luck was with him, there were no other customers, and he only had to wait a few minutes for his order to be sliced off the bone.

* * * * *

It was obvious to MacLeod that Methos had something on his mind. Okay, he’d said nothing was bothering him, but that didn’t mean there was nothing going on inside that enigmatic head. He had a hunch it was connected to the parcel Methos had brought back with him, but knew better than to push for answers. Methos would talk when he was ready—or not. Either way, it was clearly no big deal. The man was too relaxed to be concerned about anything.

Throughout the rest of the day, they worked together in comfortable ease, MacLeod on what would be the new front door, Methos on the shelf units for the dining room. When their stomachs complained loudly enough they called a halt. When MacLeod suggested heading for his favorite small family restaurant for dinner, Methos shrugged.

“I’d rather not,” he said. “I’d sooner stay here and have a barbeque. It’s the nearest thing to a campfire,” he added.

MacLeod recalled their morning conversation and didn’t argue. There were beers, steaks and salad in the refrigerator, onions, peppers and mushrooms in the vegetable rack. It would be no hardship to eat at home. “Sounds good to me,” he answered cheerfully.

“And afterwards I’ll tell you the tale of Mesatawe and Grandfather Miknakw.”

“So when were you in Vermont?” he asked.

“Before it was Vermont.” It was said with an almost impish grin, and for an instant Methos looked a lot younger than late twenties. “Before you were born.”

“Funny how most of your stories are like that,” MacLeod drawled. “You think I can’t call you on them if they’re that far back?”

That got him an unrepentant chuckle.

* * * * *

With the cooking done, MacLeod threw a couple of logs onto the barbeque, and the glow of the charcoal briquettes grew into dancing golden ribbons in the warm night. They ate slowly, relishing the good food and cold beer, and the deep companionship that had grown between them. When MacLeod handed him another beer, Methos smiled his thanks, took a long drink, then set it aside. He brought a narrow, paper-wrapped package out of his shirt and held it on his lap.

“It’s early summer,” he said quietly. “About this time of year, somewhen in the sixteen hundreds. I’d ended up in a small community of settlers deep in Abenaki territory, sharing the only ford in miles with the People. The Jameses, Carlyles and Mitchams had a good working relationship with what was left of the local band, so much so that Ian Carlyle had married Miknakw’s daughter, Nanatasis. They had a thriving family, and Mary was their youngest daughter. Through her I met her grandfather.” He fell silent, looking down at the package in his lap.

“You said what was left of the band,” MacLeod prompted softly, though he could make a good guess as to why.

“Mostly the usual. Diseases brought by the Europeans,” Methos said. “And the land encroachment. It rarely went as smoothly as it did at the Crossing Place settlement. A lot of the Abenaki had already started to drift north, and by the time the French and Indian Wars were over—but that was later.

“Miknakw was Mary’s grandfather, but it was a title as well. He was a shaman, the real deal. He knew what I was without being told, treated me as if I was a combination of apprentice shaman, a retarded pain in his arse, and someone who’d walked out of the band’s campfire tales. I’d been around for about ten years, give or take. Watched Mary grow up. Watched the Abenaki grow fewer and fewer. Then one day that summer, he told me it was time I left. Mesatawe was becoming too fond of me, and she should find a man who’d give her children.

“He said that a long time ago he’d asked the spirits about dreams he’d had, dreams of death and destruction. They’d told him he couldn’t stop what was coming, but he could protect the Crossing Place. To do that, he needed to make sure his blood stayed, even when the Abenaki had gone. Someone had to be the Guardian, and that was the destiny of his bloodline. He’d known what he had to do—marry Nanatasis to Ian Carlyle, so the blood-link would help the Mother recognise her new children with their pale skin-color.”

He unwrapped the package in his hands, held up the flint knife so that the firelight rippled along its edge and glowed through where the flint was so thin it was semitransparent. “And this would stay with them. It was his, handed down to him from shaman to shaman, and it would pass from him to Nanatasis, and on down through the Carlyle line. It and their vigilance would keep the Crossing Place safe for generations to come.

“The Crossing Place wasn’t the ford, Mac. It was something else. It stood my hair on end, and every time I went there I could feel it tugging at my quickening as if I was standing in a river. A sacred place, and—so much more. Not dangerous, exactly, but—” He broke off, clearly unable to find the right words, which in itself was so unusual that MacLeod stared at him, his hackles rising with unease. He was no stranger to the uncanny, but he would never be comfortable with it.

“What did Miknakw say it was?” he asked, not sure if he wanted an answer.

“It’s the trail the spirits walk to go from here to there. I’m not sure how the knife fits in, but he thought it was important. Enough for him to marry his daughter to a white man, so his bloodline and the knife would be around after he and the Abenaki were gone.”

Cautiously MacLeod accepted the knife from Methos’ open palm, examined the blade in the firelight. “It’s a beautiful piece of work,” he said. “But the hilt is modern, that’s for sure. So, uh, you think it should be taken back? Unless the Crossing Place is here in Barre? Where did you find it?”

“In the antiques mall on Mill Street. Being sold as a reproduction of an Abenaki artifact. Where it should be is over a hundred miles away, and I have no idea whether the settlement was abandoned or grew into a town. Probably abandoned, if the knife is here. Mac, it has to go back.”

“I won’t argue,” he said with a snort. “Then we do some researching. Who’s supposed to have made it?”

“Jack Olivier. He’s local, according to the guy who sold it. I’ll start with him, but first we need to look at a map.”

“The road atlas is in the living room. Come on.”

MacLeod strode swiftly into the house, snatched the atlas from its shelf and opened it on the coffee table. “North, south, east or west?” he asked, turning to the Vermont section.

“South,” Methos said, leaning over his shoulder. He reached down, trailed his finger along the page, following the path of a river. “Most of these towns and villages weren’t around, and those that were had different names. I can’t even be sure it’s this river—” He stopped, his fingertip hovering over the dot of a town. “Midway. I wonder.”

“Midway? As in between here and there?” MacLeod said with a wry smile. “Google it while I check the phone book.”

Midway had a website. Not a very big one, but it did give a potted history of the town. And its original name, Carlyle’s Crossing.

“Bingo,” Methos said. “It wasn’t abandoned after all. What have you got?”

“About six Oliviers, including a René, which can be shortened to Ren. All living in East Barre, not far from Mill Street. It’s too late tonight. First thing tomorrow, we can call him, arrange a meeting. Then we head south.”

“There’s a B&B on Midway’s Main Street, run by a Bob and Alice Mitcham. Tomorrow I’ll phone ahead and book us in for the night. Just in case.”

That was one of the original founding family names. MacLeod nodded. “Good idea,” he said. There was nothing around the house that couldn’t wait for a few days, and this mystery—quest?—of Methos’ had fired his imagination. “Does the site say anything about the Carlyles?”

“Yes. They died out in the 1940s. Reuben Carlyle bought it in Operation Overlord. Omaha Beach, July 6th 1944. He was nineteen. No wife, no children, and no siblings. His parents died in a car-crash five years later.”

“So how the hell did the knife get to Olivier?”

* * * * *

“How the hell did you get that?” Ren Olivier started to snatch the knife from Methos’ hand, but hesitated at the last moment and pulled back. He leaned away, the kitchen chair groaning a little under his weight. He was in his sixties, and despite his age, he packed a lot of muscle on his heavyset frame.

“I bought it,” Methos said. “I’m hoping you can tell me more about it.”

“From the Mall on Mill Street? I’ll ground that little shit for the rest of his life!” Olivier groaned and scrubbed his hands through his gray hair. Those hands were gnarled and scarred, the knuckles swollen with the beginnings of arthritis. “I’m sorry, Mr Pierson, it shouldn’t have been there. Can I buy it back from you? It’s kind of important to my family.”

“Why?” Methos asked, his voice neutral. “Are you a Carlyle?”

“No, I—how do you know about them?”

“How did the knife get to be on sale, then?” Methos asked. “And please, call me Adam.”

“Then you better make it Ren, I guess. My grandson, Jack. I’ve been teaching him some of the old ways, including flint knapping. I told him he could offer his reproductions to John for sale. I know he was using the Carlyle blade as a model, but I never thought the idiot would haft it and send it in with the rest.”

“He did a damn good job of it,” MacLeod said. “Maybe it got in there by mistake?”

“Yeah, maybe. Adam, whatever you paid for it, I’ll match.”

“Tell me how you came to have it, and I’ll think about it.”

“It’s an Abenaki artifact. It belongs with us.”

“It belongs at the Crossing Place,” Methos said, iron in every word.

“You are a Carlyle. Damn it, man!” Olivier pushed himself to his feet, his chair skidding back on the wooden floor. He paced for a few moments, and the silence in the warm, herb and spice fragrant room grew heavy.

“Ren,” MacLeod said quietly. “We‘re not here to cause trouble. We just need answers. Until we get them, we won’t know what to for the best.”

“Let me think, okay?”

Methos glanced at MacLeod, then smiled and shrugged. “No problem, Ren,” he said easily. “Sorry I bit at you. I’m a little sensitive about it, too.”

“Yeah, well…. I guess I can understand that.” He came back to the table and sat down, elbows planted on the scrubbed wood. “I don’t know how much got passed down to you,” he said, “but not all of the People agreed with what the shaman said. You know about him?”

“N’mahom Miknakw. Yes. Grandfather Turtle.”

“Okay, then. This is the story that came down to us. Many years ago, Miknakw had a dream that showed him the fate of the People of the Dawn. There was no way he could prevent it, but there were sacred places that needed protection. One in particular. It couldn’t be left unguarded, and the People couldn’t take it with them. There weren’t very many of them left by then, and the last few who were fit enough wanted to leave, follow their kin north to Canada. But he said that he would stay behind and join his blood with the white man. The knife, that should have been handed on to his successor, would be the symbol of the Guardian, and he’d make sure the knowledge was passed down his line. But there was argument. Not everyone believed he dreamed true. There were hard words said, my ancestors went north and eventually took the family name of Olivier.

“But through the generations, we kept in touch with the Carlyles. By the time the 1930s came around, we’d visit them sometimes. Well, my parents did. I wasn’t born then. In 1942 my eldest sister went with them. She was seventeen. She and the only Carlyle boy fell in love, and she stayed behind in Midway when our folks came home. But he was called up by the Army and there was a war going on across the sea. He didn’t have any kin but his mom and dad, so he took the knife from its place and told her to keep it safe for him. They were going to get married when he came back. I guess you know what happened next?”

Methos nodded. “He died on Omaha Beach.”

“And she came home to Canada and brought the knife with her,” MacLeod continued. The words ‘he took the knife from its place’ had put a shiver down his spine.

“You got it.” Olivier reached across to the stove for the coffee pot and refilled their mugs. “When Dad discovered what she’d done, he didn’t know whether to be pleased or angry. But a shaman’s knife—that’s no light thing, and—well, he settled on the pleased at first. But by the time I came along, he wasn’t so happy. He was getting these dreams, telling him to bring the knife back. So the whole family upped sticks and moved over the border. We got as far as Barre where we had some distant kin, when he got sick and died. Mom decided that was a sign, and here is where the knife wanted to be. We—and it—have been here ever since.”

“It needs to go back, Ren,” Methos said.

“No. Young Reuben gave it to Estelle.”

“He shouldn’t have done that,” MacLeod said. “And I think you know it.”

“Mac’s right.” Methos leaned forward, his expression earnest. “The knife is more than a symbol. Do you know what had to be guarded so carefully?”

“Yes. The ford—the Crossing Place.”

“What does Estelle say?” he asked. “She—”

“She’s passed. Last year, of pneumonia.”

“I’m sorry. But Miknakw’s knife has to go back to its place.”

Olivier remained silent, his scowl deepening. Then he shook his head and sighed.

“Yes,” he said. “You’re right.” He might have said more, but the back door bounced open, crashing back against the cabinets.

“Hey, Pops, guess what, I—” The teenager stopped in his tracks, a flush of embarrassment darkening his face. “Uh, sorry,” he said sheepishly, backing toward the doorway. “I—uh—”

“Right on cue,” Olivier said, his tone grim. “Stay right there, boy. Now tell me why you hafted the Carlyle blade and gave it to John to sell?”

“Uh,” he began, dark eyes flashing from one stranger to the other. He was in his late teens, tall but gangly, and the bony spread of his shoulders hinted he would have his grandfather’s bulk one day. His wide, high cheekbones and copper-brown skin clearly showed his racial heritage, and so did the long black hair pulled back in an untidy ponytail. He shifted awkwardly, shoulders hunching, and MacLeod felt a twinge of sympathy. Then the boy’s eyes locked with Methos’ and a change came over him. He stood straight, head up, poised and alert. “I had a dream,” he said quietly. “It needed to be there. Someone was coming for it.”

“For God’s sake, Jack!” Exasperation colored Olivier’s voice.

“S’true, Pops. I swear it.” The boy’s confidence wilted a little. “Someone did, right?” He stared at the knife in Methos’ hand, then back to Methos again.

“You know the story of Miknakw and the Carlyles?” MacLeod asked, and Jack flinched.

“Yeah. Shit, dude, are you a Carlyle?”

“No,” Methos answered. “Neither of us are. But I know the history, maybe more than you do. I’m taking the knife back to its place, and I think you should come with us. Both of you,” he added over Olivier’s, “Now hold on a minute!”

“Yes. I’ll go,” Jack said and blinked, obviously startled at his own decisiveness.

“Nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” MacLeod said, his smile widening. “Pack overnight bags. Adam will tell you all he knows about the knife and what it does on the way down.”

“Down?” Olivier frowned. “Where?”

“Midway,” Methos said. “And a house called Carlyle’s Crossing.”

* * * * *

Midway was not the bustling metropolis its website had led Methos to expect. It had an uncared-for shabbiness about it, and there were a significant number of boarded up store-fronts and sagging ‘For Sale or Rent’ signs along Main Street. It was as if a shadow hung over the town, and had done for a very long time. Yet the setting was spectacular in that typical Vermont way. The valley floor was more or less level, with steep sides and massive outcrops of granite among the trees. He caught glimpses of winding dirt roads leading up to the forest and a few clusters of houses perched on their own terraces above the town. Further to the west, he knew the valley opened out into good farmland, while here the mountains’ shoulders closed about the town. But it was more than geography that was oppressing the place.

There had been no difficulty in booking two extra rooms at the B&B and when they signed in, Methos discovered they were the only visitors the Mitchams had received for many weeks.

During the few hours of driving time, he had regaled the two Oliviers with as much of a detailed account as he could, given that he had to disguise the fact that it was first-hand knowledge. Afterwards, when the inevitable questions had dried up, they were subdued, but not as wall-eyed as he’d thought they’d be. Young Jack in particular had a set to his jaw and a zealous light in his eyes that said he was fully on board with what Methos intended to do.

One thing that Methos had not passed on was the actual location of the Crossing Place. After a swift lunch in an almost empty diner, the four men walked due east along Main Street. The natural terracing was more pronounced as they drew closer to the river, and the houses thinned out to a scatter. When they came to where the road took a sudden dip, the town came to an abrupt end.

By mutual consent, they stopped. Ahead the road divided. One branch continued over a 19th century bridge, while the other sloped down over fifty feet to where the old ford was clearly visible on the upstream side of the modern construction. The water was a sparkling flow over a flat shelf of stone that was broad enough to let two trucks pass if their drivers were inclined to ignore the bridge. It would be no more than six or seven inches deep at this time of year, Methos remembered. In winter and spring, once the snow melt had started, the ford would be a savage torrent many feet deep, and not crossable for weeks. The comparatively modern bridge, with its massive girders, was a godsend. Then he looked to his left and found the house.

Methos wouldn’t have recognised it if the name hadn’t been nailed at a drunken angle below the rusted mailbox. Carlyle’s Crossing. He hadn’t expected the L-shaped single-story building he’d known to remain unchanged, but the three-story Victorian with the wraparound porch was something of a shock. At some time the Carlyles had come up in the world, but now the house was in the same kind of uncared-for state as the rest of the town. Paint was peeling off the clapboard walls, and by the look of it, a few roof shingles were missing. All the upstairs windows he could see were closed off with shutters, while the first floor windows were dulled and blind with dust.

“I think it’s seen better days,” Olivier said cautiously.

“It’s creeping me out,” Jack muttered. “Seriously. So what do we do now, Adam? Where does the knife have to be?”

“The ford,” his grandfather began, but Jack shook his head.

“No, that’s too easy,” he said.

Methos smiled to himself and caught MacLeod’s eye. “So where do you think it ought to be, Jack?”

“How the hell do I know? You’re the one with the local knowledge.”

“You’re the one who had the dream,” Methos countered.

“Huh.” Jack shoved his hands into the pockets of his baggy jeans, hunched his shoulders and glared at the house. “Over there. Past that old wreck of a house.”

“Then lead on,” Methos said smoothly.

The teenager scowled uncertainly, as if he thought he was being mocked.

“Just go with your instincts,” MacLeod said.

“Here.” Methos took the flint knife from his pocket and held it out. “This might help.”

“Ooo-kay.” Warily, Jack accepted it, turning it over in his fingers as if he hadn’t seen it before. “You know, this is so freakin’ weird....”

Unexpectedly it was Olivier who responded first. “You’ll get used to it, son,” he said with a gentle affection that made the boy flush. “Just go with the flow.”

“Yeah. Riiight.” But he braced his shoulders back and started walking.

Jack led them along a narrow trail that ran above the river’s bank, past the house and into the woods behind it. About half a mile in, he stopped. The trail ran on, still following the line of the river, but he turned in a slow circle.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I kind of want to go left here, but there’s no path.”

“Then we go left,” Methos answered. “And I suggest we do our damnedest not to leave a trail ourselves. So be careful where and how you tread.”

Twenty minutes later, they were high up in rugged country. Boulders like giant building blocks loomed among the trees, dense undergrowth and poison ivy made the going more than difficult, and swarms of insects buzzed around their sweating faces, crawled in their hair. But all four moved silently as hunters, leaving little more than some bruised foliage to show where they had passed.

Then Methos felt the first brush of strangeness and heard MacLeod’s muffled curse of surprise behind him. There was no sense of a current now, just a tangled, swirling rush that pulled and repelled at the same time, threatened to sweep him off-balance and away—

“What the freakin’ hell do I do now?” Jack demanded in a falsetto. They stopped in a clearing, but nothing showed to set it apart from the other open spaces they’d hiked through. “Hey, guys, I really don’t like this!”

“What is this place?” Olivier gasped. “There’s only rocks and trees, but—”

“The Crossing Place,” Methos said. “Put the knife back, young Miknakw.”

And Jack knelt down and scraped at the leaf-littered soil with hand and knife, digging into the loam, clearing away stones and dirt until he had uncovered bedrock. The granite was rough, grooved and notched, and the shape of one of the hollows would be just big enough to hold the knife. Jack started to lay it down.

“No,” Methos said quickly. “The point of the blade away from you, toward the mountain.”

“Shit, yes,” he hissed. “Gotta set the flow right, yeah?”

“Oh, yes,” Methos drawled. Flint chimed on granite as Jack set it in place, and at once the swirling energy became a steady flow north. The relief was palpable. The day seemed brighter, the heat cleaner and no longer cloying, and the oppressiveness lifted from the atmosphere.

“Oh my freakin’ God...” Jack whispered, his eyes wide as a child’s.

Methos gave a breathless chuckle, his teeth gritted against the urge to just let go and be carried to wherever the current took him. He could hear MacLeod’s quickened breathing beside him, knew he was fighting the same impulse.

“Cover it over, Jack,” Methos said. “Make it look as undisturbed as possible. Then we can head back.”

“Thank God,” Olivier said hoarsely. “This is as Twilight Zone as I ever want to get.”

* * * * *

The walk back to the town seemed to pass quickly. Jack didn’t stop asking questions, picking Methos’ brain and memory with the relentlessness of a hound on a scent. As they neared the B&B he fell silent for all of a minute. Then, “This means I’m a shaman, doesn’t it?” he said.

“Possibly,” Methos answered. “But—”

“That place felt weird, like small electric shocks all over me. But it was different for you and Mac, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe. But—”

“You’re different. All the things you know. It’s like you were there.”

“Jack—”

“You called me Miknakw. You knew him, didn’t you? Am I like him?”

“There are times, young Turtle,” Methos drawled, “when it’s best to stay safe inside your shell. And this is one of them.”

“Jack,” Olivier snapped. “Are you listening to yourself?” It was the first time he’d spoken since they left the Crossing Place. “Let it be. We’ve got more important things to discuss. Like what do we do now? We can’t just leave the knife there, surely,” he added, glancing between Methos and MacLeod.

“That’s up to Jack,” Methos said quietly. “We’ve done our part. I’m not thinking anywhere further than a rare steak for dinner.”

“I guess it comes back to instinct,” MacLeod said. “What ‘s your gut reaction?”

“Stay,” Jack said quickly, and Olivier nodded.

“Someone needs to kind of keep an eye out,” he said. “Just in case.”

Jack laughed, a sudden joyous sound that seemed to echo along the street. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he said jauntily. “We could rent—or buy. The whole town looks like it’s about to fall apart, so I bet real estate’s at rock bottom prices.”

“Better make up your mind fast.” MacLeod smiled and tugged the boy’s ponytail lightly. “I have a hunch Midway’s going to haul itself out of the doldrums pretty soon now.”

Methos let his grin widen. Maybe he could persuade MacLeod to put an offer on the Carlyle house. If ever there was a fixer-upper, that was it. On second thoughts, it would be the best place for the Oliviers to settle. Ren had the look of a man with the knack of restoring old houses. Suddenly the image of the house above Barre slipped into Methos’ head, and he knew where he wanted to be. Back there, with MacLeod. Back home.

The knife was in its place and all would be well in Midway.


End file.
